


on my way to where the air is sweet

by Merideath



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, I shoved canon in a burlap sack, Nomad Steve Rogers, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), beat it with a stick, like a slice of processed american cheese, mildest of anxiety, nomad’s terrible slumber parties, weighted it with stones and chucked it in the river
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 10:16:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18658411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merideath/pseuds/Merideath
Summary: Waking up thirsty is the worst.





	on my way to where the air is sweet

**Author's Note:**

> I blame this on Aenaria. I’m sure she won’t mind. 
> 
> It’s been awhile folks but apparently despite the best efforts of my brain I can still line up a few words together. There are dozens of wips and notes for fics in my files but I needed to think about something fluffy before endgame hit the theatres. Hopefully this was a good choice. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this little bit of nothing much.
> 
> Thank you, Aenaria and fanfic bookworm for beta services rendered. I need all the help I can get. ❤️

She’s drifting. Halfway in and out of a dream, bright flashes of light sparking behind her eyes. The dregs of the dream cling to her like dusty cobwebs. Men in dark suits and heavy firearms, grey waves swallowing the world.    
  
A shiver runs down her spine. Breathing slowly, Darcy squints at the dark room and remembers where she is. Safe. Mostly safe anyway in a ramshackle ranch style house in the middle of...somewhere that was mostly nowhere. 

Being on the run with Cap’s people was less fun than advertised. Worst slumber party ever. Darcy desperately wishes for a better bed and a new bra to replace the half dead one hidden under her pillow. The rogue captain answered her call for help rescuing Jane’s work from Secretary Ross’ greedy hands and she’s determined to do everything in her hands to repay the debt. Even if it means more peanut butter sandwiches than her days at Culver and less privacy than what she had growing up. Darcy is smarter than she pretends and is mostly confident in her skill set. A skill set more useful than the degree crumpled in a drawer back at her parents’ house.

Stretching out her legs and wiggling her toes, she reaches out for the phone that isn’t there. 

She hadn’t had a phone that wasn’t a burner for weeks now. But the habit was so, so hard to break. Rolling her eyes Darcy grabs at the water bottle on the end table.   
  
Her fingers tangle on her glasses and she pushes them aside to grab the bottle. It crinkles under her grip and she struggles to unscrew the cap. Her reward is a mouthful of stale room temperature water.    
  
“Ugh, gross,” she mutters. Nose wrinkling up, she brushes a dribble of water off her chin with the back of a hand and throws back the faded quilt covering her legs to get up; her knees give a little protest at the audacity.    
  
There’s barely any light in the living room. Or at least that’s the excuse Darcy will give for tripping and sprawling in a heap on the floor.   
  
The floor grunts.

Heavy arms wrap around Darcy’s back, and one calloused hand lands on the gap between her tee shirt and panties. She never could sleep with pj bottoms on.   
  
“What the fuuu-,” Steve growls out.  
  
“Oh my god. I’m sorry,” Darcy hisses, heat rising into her face. The water bottle crinkles loudly beneath her hand as she tries to push herself up to sitting. Her left knee twinges a little and she digs her fingers into the soft fabric covering Steve’s shoulder.   
  
“Don’t worry about it. ‘S fine,” Steve says.   
  
“I just wanted some water,” Darcy says, waving the empty bottle in his face. Or what little bit of his face she can see in the dark and with the heavy growth of stubble covering the lower half of his face.  
  
She sooo wasn’t going to think about that. No moustache rides here.   
  
“What time’s it,” Steve asks, stifling a yawn.   
  
“No idea. I can’t see a damn thing,” Darcy says, straightening up until her back gives a helpful twinge and she freezes. The empty plastic bottle in her fist cracks in her grip.

She’s straddling his impossibly small waist, one knee on the hardwood floor, the other on the tangled nest of blankets and semi-deflated air bed Steve lays on. The air bed lets out a sad sigh.   
  


Do not, I repeat, do not think about any of this.    
  
“A little after three,” Steve says.   
  
It’s on the tip of her tongue to ask why he asked for the time if he knew it. But she’s said dumber things when half awake. Darcy shrugs, her focus shifting to something new. She feels the drag of Steve’s hand on her back, slipping down to rest, heavy and warm, on Darcy’s hip. His fingertips skate over thin cloth to bare skin and a crackle of electric heat washes down her spine.

Darcy forgets to breathe. 

For just a moment she lets herself imagine dipping down to kiss him. Wonders if he’d kiss her back or if she’d fabricated the little moments when she thought he’d been watching her over the last few days. She didn’t think she was anything special. Not in the way Wanda and Natasha were. Or Jane. Darcy has a knack for being in the right place at the right time, even if the right time felt pretty damn wrong. 

The house is almost quiet. She can hear the nasal sound of Scott’s breathing across the room, the electric hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the muted sound of Clint and Bucky’s voices drifting through the open window. 

“Darcy?” 

  
“Can I ask you something?” Darcy asks softly. 

  
“M’not going anywhere with you on top of me,” Steve says, amusement clear in his husky voice. A voice that sends a jolt of sensation skittering around her belly. 

“Uh.”   
  


“I didn’t mean-“   
  


“What if you did?” Darcy cuts in. “Mean it, I mean.”

  
“Was that your question?”

Questions float like bubbles in her mind. 

_ Were you flirting with me in the kitchen yesterday like Wanda said? Did I imagine you checking me out the other day? If I kissed you right now would it be a mistake? If I give you a quarter can I ride your—- Nope. Shut up brain. _

“No.” 

Steve breaths out slowly. Seconds slip past and Darcy feels stupid. Her face heats in embarrassment, a knot of anxiety tightening in her belly. “Forget it. I’m an idiot.” Darcy moves to push herself up and Steve’s hand flattens on her hip, fingertips pushing into flesh. 

“What’s your question?” Steve asks. 

“Yesterday, when we were in the kitchen were you, you know, flirting with me?”

“Yeah. I, uh, tried.”

“Oh,” she says. Darcy catches her bottom lip between her teeth. “So if I kissed you right now?”

“I’d kiss you back.”

The knot in Darcy’s belly unravels and ties itself up again. It half feels like some sort of cosmic joke, or would have if Steve didn’t push himself up to sitting. She feels the hand on her back sliding up to tangle in the escaped strands of hair at her nape. 

Darcy inches forward to slot her mouth against Steve’s. Her lips brush his bottom lip and the soft prickles of his beard. Steve’s breath fans against her mouth and he adjusts the angle of the kiss, his mouth ghosting over hers. 

The kiss is soft and ephemeral as a birthday candle wish. She always wished for a puppy or a pony. Her dreams were filled with far different things. Maybe this was nothing more than that. The good kind of dream that lingers in the mind and the heart. 

Or maybe not. 

Steve deepens the kiss; his hand tugging at her hair pulls a gasp from Darcy’s lips and his tongue dips between. The hand on her hip tangles in the elastic of her panties with a tug that promises more. Darcy melts into him, spearing her hands through Steve’s hair, toes curling as his mouth drags along her jaw. Teeth scrape flesh and a mewling little sound escapes from Darcy’s lips. 

“No. No, Mr. Snuffleupagus, I don’t wanna go to the bad place,” Scott says from somewhere across the room. The words slur together and are punctuated by a loud snore.

Darcy freezes, heart hammering in her chest. 

_ Typical. _

A huff of rueful laughter stirs the hair beside her ear. Darcy shivers, unclenching her fingers from Steve’s hair. 

“I..” she whispers, stopping to wet her kiss swollen lips. “I should probably go get that water.”

“Yeah, probably,” Steve says. His voice is  rough and cracked, like old paint. The bristles on his jaw tickle the skin of her cheek. His lips brush over the corner of Darcy’s mouth. “You need some help?”

“Yes,” Darcy says a little too loudly. 

Scott snorts, and something thuds against the wall. Hard. “Watch out! The lemons bite. You know, the little ones that jump at you,” Scott whines. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Sesame Street Theme. 
> 
> I’m so sorry.*
> 
> *I’m not sorry at all.


End file.
